


Spend your velocities (on backwards motion)

by Chimerari



Category: The Borgias
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which ‘The Borgias’ is a band. Vitorria is the bassist who dresses like a boy pretending to be a girl. Cesare is the guitarist in tight leather and wins ‘best hair’ three years in a row. Giulia Farnese is the sassy vocalist. Juan is the drummer that nobody fucking likes. Micheletto? He’s the reluctant bodyguard for the aforementioned guitarist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The day Cesare meets Micheletto, he puts a prop blade to his throat, scowling. Micheletto doesn’t even blink, as if being pinned to the wall by a rock star in nothing but body-paint is part of the job description.

His chokehold is sloppy as hell, and he’s not placing his weight right. If Micheletto wanted, he could snap a wrist, break a few ribs, take out some kneecaps all in one go.

He does none of those, merely waits until Cesare blows a strand of curly hair out of his dark eyes.

‘God, you’re a bore.’

From the other side of the room, Giulia puffs out a perfect smoke ring, her mouth a bruised shade of red.

 

 

It will be a few years before they bump into each other at MTV music awards. Micheletto is shadowing some up-and-coming actress. The Borgias are collecting half a dozen trophies. Cesare is in a suit, with Ursula on his arm, radiant and perfectly coiffed.

Half an hour into the after party, Cesare backs him into one of the cubicles and blows him right there on the bathroom floor. His Ferragamo tie winding tight around Micheletto’s fist, eyes glassy as his breath get shallower—

They are still the same colour of fall, like something that should belong to a woodland creature.

His kisses though, are rougher, conquering, not searching.

They don’t say goodbye.

 

 

Giulia thinks they are trapped in a melodramatic silent movie with no subtitle. Cesare thinks she’s full of shit.

 

 

The whole thing starts with a death threat—the second one, to be precise—in the form of ears sent through the post (fake ones, but still). Cesare gives in to Rodrigo’s insistence and agrees to be strapped with a babysitter. Lucrezia thinks it’s hilarious. She doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that not all attention is good attention.

She’s also the one who suggests that for the latest music video, everyone should dress up as members of the clergy, while engaging in fake orgies.

Sometimes her head is a scary place to be in.

 

 

Augustino, his business partner, recommends him for the job, because.

‘Spoiled brats, chopped-up body parts, religious fanatics screaming for the stake. You’d love it, man.’

Micheletto gives him a look.

‘All I’m saying is, you’re the zen-ist motherfucker I know. You’ll roll like a rolling stone with this bunch.’

Plus, it goes without saying that Violetta is expecting in a few months, and Augustino is a functional nervous wreck.

 

 

Vittoria shuffles into the room in her usual biker jacket and boots, all hunched shoulders and fleeting eyes. Giulia almost dislodges Cesare off the armrest as she makes room on the couch.

‘Sweetie, it really isn’t so bad to be objectified from time to time.’ She runs her fingers through Vittoria’s short auburn tufts, secretly missing the feel of golden locks against her skin. ‘I find it empowering when people think you’re just a pretty face. And look at Ces.’ Giulia slaps one leather clad thigh closest to her elbow. ‘Thriving under all that attention.’

‘Like a weed.’ Juan chirps from the floor. Cesare kicks him in the shoulder, hard.

Rodrigo storms in with the phone still attached to his ear. Lucrezia titters behind on lethal heels.

‘Alright, I’ve talked to a few people. This guy is ex-military, got quite a reputation in the business. Now, before you start objecting—’ he slants a stern look in Cesare’s direction, ‘—the choice is either have him here, or cancel the whole tour.’

Lucrezia peers at the sullen faces over the tortoise rim of her glasses. ‘I have made arrangements with the venues and hotels. He will be given full access to all the locations.’

‘Is he gonna hold my dick while I piss?’ Cesare rolls his eyes. Giulia covers Vittoria’s ears in mock outrage. ‘What’s rock’n’roll without a little death threat?’

‘By putting yourself, the band, _and_ the fans in danger.’

Giulia doesn’t care what everybody else says. A man who can silence Cesare like that is pure management gold.

 

 

Within the first hour, Cesare manages to disappear from the set while Micheletto talks to the security on site. Micheletto budges into the bathroom, half expecting the guy to be slumped in a corner with coke up his nose, or a groupie in between his legs, only to find Cesare sneaking a cigarette with Vannozza, the makeup artist.

He frowns. Cesare waves the pack of Marlboro in his direction.

‘Want one?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Of course you don’t.’ Cesare snorts. ‘Don’t drink either, I suppose.’

‘No.’

‘What’s the point? You take bullets for other people for a living.’

‘I make sure neither my client nor I have to take a bullet.’

‘But you will, for me, if it comes down to it, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s fucked up.’ Cesare laughs. ‘The money can’t be that good.’

Micheletto doesn’t bother to argue; people outside the profession rarely understand.

‘Next time, tell me where you’re going. Then we can both get on with our lives in one piece.’

Vannozza looks between those two, one finely arched eyebrow climbing to her hairline.

 

 

Giulia meets Vee when she’s seventeen and not at all famous. Back then Vittoria has limp blond hair and dirt beneath her bitten nails. Giulia helps her to lift a double bass about the same height as them off the van, and concludes that the newcomer is either a very timid boy or a really, really flat-chested girl. Either way, pretty damn cute.

Their friendship revolves around Giulia coaxing, dragging, or needling Vee into doing things: painting her nails, buying a bra, kissing boys, walking in heels. Things that, by now, Vee has rejected slowly and surely, with the exception of the band.

Sometimes Giulia misses the Vee who lets herself be led into situations she’s not entirely comfortable with. She likes the Vee who mumbles without meeting people’s eyes more.

But not half as much as she loves the Vee who’s no one’s fool, who has grown to fight and scratch and run away.

 

 

Juan is the easiest out of them all, really. But nobody seems to care when there is a guitarist who is bi by admission and a bassist who is bi by definition. The general consensus is that Vittoria is still making her mind up whether to be a girl or a guy, let alone which gender she prefers sleeping with. On the other hand, Juan’s version of self-discovery is to smoke copious amounts of weed and bed as many women as he can. One time he runs off to Spain with some nameless girl, and has to smuggle himself back because he’s lost his passport. Rodrigo very nearly blows a vessel when he finds out.

But of course, the cover story for US weekly is a picture of Micheletto, snapped near Cesare’s house at some late hour. The headline reads, ‘new man in rocker’s life?’ which is just plain awful.

‘Who wrote this?’ Giulia sounds like she’s having a laughing fit. ‘That Savonarola dude? Seriously, Ces, he has the hots for you. No one invests this much time in someone he supposedly detests.’

Cesare narrows his eyes at the close-up of Micheletto’s face, who’s staring straight into the hidden camera. Those pale eyes come out nearly white in the poor lighting.

‘New man in my life? That’s worrying. You look like you’re ready to strangle someone in their sleep.’

Even Vittoria cracks a smile at that. She’s doodling on a piece of napkin.

‘Not unless I’m paid,’ Micheletto says evenly. There is a moment of stunned silence. Then Giulia inhales in great big mouthfuls, feigning panic. ‘You, I like you. But has anyone ever said you have a crappy sense of humour?’

 

 

The truth is, they’re probably the most irrational, self-centred group of people who happen to be thrown upon one another for support: Rodrigo is always in between lovers, each one younger than the previous; Lucrezia is sleeping with the chauffeur. The rumours about her and Cesare will never go away, despite husband number one and two; Giulia is hiding a failed marriage and an abortion, thanks to a killer publicist; Juan is forever drunk on fame and alcohol and whatever mind-altering drugs money can buy, and nobody wants to touch the situation with the sister-in-law with a ten feet pole.

It’s a miracle how they manage to function at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Cesare’s house isn’t a mansion. It’s pretty big for one person. There are more flat screen TVs and Xbox-es than anyone really needs. But it’s nothing compared to Lucrezia’s (well, her husband’s) freaking palace with practically its own power grid. So he really doesn’t know why it’s Lucrezia who always comes over, bringing junk food and DVD box sets whenever she’s had enough of the men in her life.

‘8000 square foot and you can’t find a room to hide in?’

‘I don’t like that much space when my head is…’ She taps on her temple eloquently. ‘Your place is cosier.’

By cosier, Cesare guesses she doesn’t mean mismatched socks wedged in between sofa cushions, and week-old dishes piled up in the sink. (He throws them all out at regular intervals when the caked on food doesn’t soak off). Besides, she leaves Doritos fingerprints all over Cesare’s rug, so she can’t exactly judge.

‘Remember Sforza?’

‘Hard to forget when you married one.’ Lucrezia pauses, then chokes on her fancy herbal tea. ‘You slept with my ex-husband?!’

‘No!’ Cesare grimaces. ‘God no. Thanks for that mental image.’

‘Then who? Caterina? You hated her though.’

‘Still do. We were high, shit happens.’

Lucrezia narrows her eyes speculatively. ‘So, how was it?’

‘I don’t kiss and tell.’

‘Well, was she, you know, a bit of a screamer?’

They burst out laughing at that, giggling like back in those chubby-cheeked, sticky-fingered days.

 

 

The thing about touring is that everyone is itching to go when they’re sitting on their asses. Once all four of them get crammed into a van, it suddenly becomes the last place they want to be in. Juan stumbles in last minute just as Rodrigo is about to lose it, reeking of smoke and someone else’s perfume.

Augustino comes and lends a helping hand as they get ready to set off. There are too many roadies roaming about for Micheletto to keep track of. So Augustino mans the security cameras as Micheletto dogs Cesare, keeping each other updated through their ear pieces. Until Cesare snaps and grabs for the mic pinned to Micheletto’s lapel.

‘Tell your boyfriend to back. The. Fuck. Off!’

Micheletto winces at the booming laughter in his right ear. For some reason, Cesare’s gaze turns shrewd, calculating, before he turns and walks away.

 

 

Giulia kisses Vee half way through the chorus. A dry press of lips, nothing more. They’re not like that. Vittoria has a boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever. It’s just heat of the moment, adrenaline rush. The crowd goes wild for it, cheering loud enough to drown out the backing track.

She pulls away, grinning. Vee flashes her a small smile which is part fondness and part surprise; she gets like that sometimes on stage, sinks so deep into her own head she’s barely aware of the surroundings.

Mostly fondness.

To Vittoria, Giulia always tastes a little complicated: lip-gloss, bourbon, cinnamon gum, the cigarettes she’s not supposed to smoke, the synthetic sweetness of lollipops that distract her from stage frights.

The bass drum throbs from her sneaker-clad toes to the pit of her stomach, and the moment is gone. The swirling sounds pulls her down again.

 

 

In Kansas, things go out of hand. One second Cesare is yelling into Giulia’s mic, the next he’s pulled into the mosh pit by his ankle. Giulia drops down to her knees and shouts for help. Even Juan emerges from behind his monster of a drum set, gawping like a landed fish.

Micheletto dives in after him before anyone else unfreezes.

A wave of bodies crashes into them from all sides, jostling and grabbing. He seizes Cesare’s by the waist, pulling him upright while fighting off the flailing arms.

‘Hold on to me!’

It’s a sign of how dazed Cesare is that he complies without questioning. Ducking his head as he wraps both arms around Micheletto, who shoves and kicks their way towards the emergency exit. Cesare slips and they almost go under again, that’s when the venue staff arrives with a hoseful of icy cold water, forcing the crowd back.

The first gulp of crisp night air has Cesare collapsing against the alley wall. He doesn’t realize he’s bleeding until Micheletto swipes a thumb across his right cheek; the digit comes away tinged crimson.

‘Did you hit your head at all?’

He opens his mouth to answer, but what bubbles up instead is breathless laughter.

‘Oh wow, that was…’

Micheletto puts two fingers to his wrist. Cesare is strung too tight to shake him off. ‘Death by rabid fans, huh?’

‘Look at me.’ Micheletto cradles his pale face, tilting it up. It’s too dark to check for pupils, he’ll just have to content himself with the absence of a gushing wound. His thumb leaves a dark smudge at the corner of Cesare’s mouth. A pink tongue darts out, catching the stain on its tip.

Micheletto definitely, definitely doesn’t watch the way Cesare mindlessly sucks on his own tongue for a taste, stubbled cheeks hollowed.

 

 

In Detroit Micheletto puts a man on his back so fast all Cesare notices is a whoosh of air.

Turns out the guy is just fishing in his coat pocket for a pen.

Cesare has a sneaky feeling the conversation that follows will be revisited again.

‘Take a chill pill, dude. He just wanted an autograph.’

‘I never assume anything when it comes to my client’s safety.’

‘Have you seen him? Big guy, black coat, covered in tattoos? Trust me, I recognize those, harmless as a lamb.’

‘Better be safe than sorry.’

‘Remember what you told me on the first day?’

‘From the disorganized pattern of threats, it’s unlikely to be an obsessive fan.’

‘Exactly. Let me handle the ones that are obviously fans, and you can handle the rest.’

‘A wolf can dress up as a sheep.’

‘Are you always this paranoid?’

‘You will be too if you’ve seen what I’ve seen.’

‘I’m less and less inclined to ask about your life before this.’

 

 

The company is called SD, but not many people know it stands for stray dogs. Because that’s exactly what they are: veterans who are messed up on the inside, who can disassemble and reassemble a firearm in 30 seconds flat, blindfolded, but fumble when it comes to picking out a breakfast cereal. Micheletto still remembers the overwhelming sense of jamais vu when he touches down stateside. Walks down a busy street with no one to cover his six.

If it’s not for Augustino, it could have turned out a whole other way.


	3. Chapter 3

Cesare writes three pages before he notices a shadow moving closer. The guitar squeaks as he drops his hand with an air of exasperation.

‘You’ve checked the bus before _and_ after the gig. There is no need to stay up with me.’

‘You should sleep. I heard it’s good for you.’

Cesare rubs a hand over his bloodshot eyes. ‘Yeah, it’s just…this is how I come down from a live. Nothing else works.’

‘Your drummer will beg to differ.’

That startles a laugh out of Cesare. ‘That’s twice tonight you’ve made a joke. Should I be worried?’

‘No more than usual.’

‘Aha!’ Cesare grins, triumphant. ‘So you’re not trust-worthy after all.’

‘Nobody is, not completely.’

‘So you’ll sell me out, if the price is high enough.’ Cesare sounds more curious than outraged.

‘No one can buy your life off me, if that’s what you mean.’

‘My dirty secrets, then?’

‘I wasn’t aware there was any left to sell.’ Micheletto quirks one corner of his mouth. ‘And no, it’s not in my nature to betray for profit.’

Cesare is watching him now. Watching as if he’s mentally putting Micheletto into little boxes, drawing a circle around the ones he’ll pry open later. ‘What will you betray for?’

Micheletto doesn’t know what he sees, but it’s Cesare who drops his gaze first, seemingly unbothered by Micheletto’s silence.

 

 

‘Hey, girl.’ Giulia murmurs as she crawls into Vittoria’s bunk. Fatigue is a good look on her, Vee thinks, running mascara and all. It makes her softer, almost fragile, nothing like the smirking, pouting entity on CD jackets and magazine covers.

She runs a hand through Giulia’s wild curls, damp with Louisiana air—so thick with plant emanation you can drown in it. The strands cling to her fingertips.

Giulia falls asleep like that, head resting on Vittoria’s belly. The rest of her is curled tightly into a ball. Giulia snuffles whenever the bus sways.

 

 

Photo shoots must be a special kind of hell. Cesare grimaces, feeling a headache gather behind his eyes. If he has to hear someone yell ‘come on, man, fuck the camera!’ one more time, he will not be responsible for his actions.

Micheletto watches him scramble away from the group of half-naked models, before collapsing into Lucrezia’s arms with a groan.

‘Once, I’d like it just once, to be photographed with clothes on.’

Lucrezia drops a kiss to his sweaty temple. ‘Do you know how many copies of GQ were sold the last time?’ she pauses for emphasis. ‘Shitloads. So, chin up, you ain’t see nothing yet.’

Cesare buries his head in Lucrezia’s shiny (and no doubt wickedly expensive) hair. ‘Why do I have to play some sort of horndog every single time?’

‘No, no, no, not **that**.’ Lucrezia gives him a teasing once-over. ‘A sex god, okay?’

‘A piece of meat, more like.’ Cesare lifts his head from the masses of blond curls. For some reason, his gaze lands on Micheletto, eyes dark. ‘A dime a dozen.’

He’s miles and miles of golden, oiled up skin. The leather pants moulds perfectly to the strong muscles in his thighs. Eyes lined with kohl to bring out the specks of green and amber.

Micheletto stays still, hands curled into loose fists by his sides. Backing down from a challenge has been trained out of him from the day he enlisted. It’s an automatic response: stand your ground, maintain eye contact, wait for the opponent to make the first move.

Time stretches, thick and sticky as tar.

Lucrezia shifts in his arms, uncertain. ‘Ces?’

The tension snaps. Cesare blinks as if he’s just startled awake, mumbling out an apology and steps back.

It’s not until after Cesare is called away that Micheletto realizes there are four half-moons dug into the meaty part of his palms.

 

 

‘I’ll drive you,’ Cesare says, casual like.

Micheletto stares back. ‘I don’t think…’

‘Look.’ Cesare kicks at a piece of rock. ‘This way, you don’t have to drag an extra person in on your day off. Plus, I need to get away from this bunch for a bit.’ He gestures at the bus.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Come on, I won’t crash the car, I promise.’ Cesare pulls the sunglasses down and the jacket collar up.

Micheletto shakes his head inwardly; the paparazzi could probably spot him from space.

This has bad idea written all over it.

 

 

Cesare eats three helpings of Mrs Corella’s stew. He smirks as he flips through Micheletto’s family album. (‘I didn’t know you were into artistic nudes.’ ‘I was three.’)

In almost all of the pictures there is another dark haired boy, grinning alongside Micheletto—from sitting to crawling to playing football, gap toothed to gangly shouldered.

‘That’s Augustino.’ Mrs Corella loads their bowls with ice cream, beaming fondly. ‘I always say I have two boys, not one.’

Micheletto doesn’t look up, too busy getting the last bit of graham cracker off his plate.

 

 

‘You and Augustino, huh?’

‘We grew up together, went into the army together, got the fuck out together.’

‘So why the hell aren’t you running off to Canada and adopting babies?’

‘He’s married.’

Cesare gives him an unreadable look, but thankfully lets the subject drop.

 

 

Of course, the truth is always simpler and more complicated than what they tell.

Micheletto grips the steering wheel tighter. It’s just one night, one goddamn night, desperate fumbling in hushed darkness, helping each other out when the need for another human body becomes too much. The stench of death and blood and stale sweat lodges in their throats, overwhelming all other senses.

And yet, and yet.

He remembers the small sound Augustino makes as he jerks in Micheletto’s arms, almost a sob. Remembers tasting him on his knuckles, after. The way Augustino sags into him, a warm, intimate weight pressing him down to the ground.

Besides him, Cesare dozes. His lashes were two dark smudges against his cheekbones.

For one brief moment, envy burns white hot on Micheletto’s tongue.

 

 

They’re doing bodyshots, of all things. Giulia has collapsed into a giggling heap after licking salt off Vittoria’s thigh, while Juan cheers on.

Then Giulia turns her liquid eyes to Cesare, zeroing in on him like a hawk.

‘I dare you, Ces.’ She points a finger in Micheletto’s direction, eyebrows doing a merry little dance.

Micheletto maps out all exits from the bus before Cesare pins him with a sidelong glance. One corner of his mouth twitches up and up.

There is a tinny voice in his head shouting ‘back up, back up!’ like a broken record. But it fades into nothingness as Cesare staggers up, gathering salt, lime and a shot glass in both hands, and saunters over.

‘Stay still, don’t want to spill any, do we?’ Cesare says matter-of-factly as he tugs on Micheletto’s belt, wedges the glass between his fly and belly. His words sound just a bit more rounded, with the deliberateness of a drunk trying hard to sound sober.

‘Hand.’

Micheletto is holding up a palm without a second thought. His conscience stirs, uneasy, before flopping onto its belly. A laugh rumbles deep in Cesare’s chest as he tips salt onto the base of Micheletto’s thumb.

The inside of the bus is a blur of noises and colors, hovering in and out of focus.

Lips first, softer than any men’s have the right to be, brush across where the salt is sticking to skin, almost nuzzling. Soon followed by a tongue, little cat-like licks, chasing after the taste. Micheletto watches, breathing in careful, controlled puffs. All the while Cesare holds his gaze, even as he licks up Micheletto’s wrist, slow and steady, for good measure.

He leans closer, pointy little nose rests briefly in the hollow of Micheletto’s throat before he starts the downward slide, folding gracefully to his knees. His hands were interlocked in the small of his back.

The smile he gives Micheletto—just before he cocks his head to the side—gleams like the deadliest blade.

Cesare works the glass loose; lips wrap around the rim, sucking it into his mouth and slowly tilts his head back, throat bobbing.

Someone lets out a low whistle. Micheletto can hear clapping, clapping for god’s sake, as Cesare bites into the slice of lime, upper and lower lashes touching.

 

 

Later, Micheletto shoves him into the side of the bus.

‘You little shit,’ he growls, bangs Cesare’s head against the metal once. ‘You fucking tease. Pushing, always pushing.’

‘Who said I was teasing?’ Cesare wheezes, breathless. One thigh nudges against the bulge at the front of Micheletto’s pants.

Micheletto watches the curls fall messily into his dark, dark eyes, the gleam of sweat on bronzed skin, and thinks, Christ, he does have a type.


	4. Chapter 4

The interviewer is quite a looker, but.

‘The giggling, man,’ Juan groans into the bottom of his glass. ‘It was giving me performance anxiety.’

Cesare and Lucrezia have an entire conversation with just their eyes, while Giulia snorts under her breath.

Their break officially starts today, before the second leg of the tour kicks off. And everyone is in that state of half exhaustion half exhilaration, moving like the world is soft and fuzzy around the edges. Giulia’s top is soaked through with the drink she’s spilled over herself earlier, drawing colorful looks from the rest of the bar.

Cesare doesn’t blame them, she’s got **fantastic** tits.

Juan glances over. ‘Of course, you’re used to a little giggling by now.’

All four turn to look at Vittoria, who is slumped over Giulia’s knee, grinning at thin air. Their bassist is a happy drunk. Once the dreamy smiles start to creep up every thirty seconds, you know it’s time to swap the shots for water.

‘Alright, punks.’ Lucrezia leans over to give Giulia a peck on the cheek. ‘Some of us still have work tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Cesare chooses that moment to pick her up by the waist, and swing them both over the booth. They almost land on the floor in a tangle if not for Micheletto’s quick reflexes.

The chaos doesn’t last long. Cesare stumbles around with Lucrezia yelping in childish delight. Micheletto ends up with an armful of Cesare, warm and solid.

If he’s momentarily distracted by the smell of fresh sweat and subtle, expensive cologne, nobody has to know.

 

 

Vittoria is a skinny kid and a skinnier teenager. Throughout high school she spends a lot of time with both arms crossed in front of her, clutching her sketchbook like a shield. The few girls who talk to her always moan about how lucky she is, how she never seems to put on a pound. Which makes her feel even more like a freak.

Giulia has normal proportions and no real friends. Not that she cares. The whispers that follow her make Vittoria blanch with anger. Giulia shrugs it off with a lazy flick of her hand.

‘Why should I bother? They’re either jealous, or stupid.’ She tugs Vittoria closer, passing her a funny looking cigarette (‘a joint, honey, it’s called a joint.’)

‘Wanna try?’

The first clumsy inhale makes Vee wheeze until she’s red in the face. She looks up through the haze of tears to see Giulia smiling down at her. ‘Okay, okay, let’s do it this way.’

Giulia scoots closer, free hand sliding along the back of Vee’s neck. A thumb presses under her jaw, tilting her head back.

‘Open your mouth.’

Vee blinks, and does exactly that. She feels ridiculous until Giulia’s face looms closer still. Today her smile is Ruby Red rather than Passion Pink. The sweep of her lashes clouds most of Vee’s vision.

‘Breathe in when I breathe out.’

The corners of Giulia’s mouth are chapped, that’s the first thought that floats to the front of Vee’s mind. The sting of smoke on her tongue barely registers. She tries to breathe and talk at the same time, ends up spluttering into Giulia’s face. Which, for some reason, makes Giulia grin even harder.

Vee blushes to the roots of her hair while Giulia takes another drag. A teasing glint swims in those half-lidded eyes.

They manage to do it right the second time. Bitter warmth slithers down the back of Vittoria’s throat. The full effect slams into her almost immediately after.

It’s a peculiar feeling, weightless and leaden at the same time. Heat rushes to the tips of her fingers and toes before popping like champagne bubbles, leaving behind a faint tingling.

She opens her mouth (a gasp, a giggle) and Giulia is there already. Those lips back on hers, pressing hot and tight.

Exhale, inhale.

Sometimes Vittoria wonders what life will be like if she’s never met Giulia. A lot safer, maybe.

And unbearably, mind-numbingly boring.

 

 

A dude with spiky hair comes to pick Vittoria up. It takes three of them to help her climb onto the back of his bike. Giulia strokes Vee’s flushed cheek in lieu of goodbye, her own companion of the night waiting impatiently around the corner.

Juan has long disappeared to god knows where.

Cesare yawns. ‘Where to, bright eyes?’

Micheletto just about manages to hide his shock. He’s mostly decided that one time in the parking lot was exactly that: a one-off drunken mistake. Even though for the week after, Cesare keeps fingering the bruises Micheletto left on his wrists.

Micheletto should have requested extra hazard pay, on the ground of his mental wellbeing.

‘I could ask your place or mine, but I’d rather not travel half way across the country just to have you naked on a bed.’

Put it like that, it’s hardly a choice.

 

 

The thing most people don’t know about Cesare is that he’s ticklish. He also snores in bed from time to time. Fails at any culinary challenge more complicated than making toasts.

He is, hands down, one of the dirtiest lays Micheletto has ever had. The rock and roll life obviously has its perks; that mouth should be illegal in all fifty states. Cesare doesn’t mind a bit of rough handling. He also seems to know the perfect way to tease his tongue inside Micheletto’s ass. Those guitarist’s fingers are skilled in torture, among other things. One time Micheletto fucks him with a vibrating toy and watches, petting him with pretty words breathed into the shell of his ear. Words like gorgeous, taking it so well, baby, wish you could see yourself. Cesare comes without a hand on him, shaking and bowing.

There are many sides to Cesare, Micheletto has discovered that a while back: the flirt, the performer, bleary eyed with mussed hair, puts away fries at an alarming speed; irritable and monosyllabic when his latest composition is going nowhere.

Micheletto likes him best when he’s sated and soft in their bed (a hotel bed. Not that he can mistake the king-size for his own Spartan cot), hogging the pillow. Cesare doesn’t become angelic in sleep, but it does take years off him.

They sleep in until noon, then go out and eat a million donuts, or just lounge in the sun for hours. The nights are spent cruising from one smoky, anonymous bar to another, inhaling Southern food and bourbon.

Sometime after midnight, Cesare always walks, albeit a little unsteadily, back to where Micheletto is nursing a beer. Half a dozen phone numbers in one hand, the other crawls up Micheletto’s thigh under the cover of the table.

It’s hard to be annoyed with Cesare’s sense of entitlement when he’s tasting that Cheshire grin from behind Cesare’s teeth.

 

 

Things are never quite the same after that.

There is the tour, sweeping everyone up again, always marching forward, forward at a punishing pace.

Then there is The Borgias’ adoring crowd, camping outside live houses, lurking around hotels, cameras at ready.

They hardly get a moment alone.

 

 

Cesare throws the last few picks into the pit. There is a flurry of limbs dashing towards where they land. Giulia steals Juan’s broken drumstick and bangs merrily away on one of the cymbals. Vittoria sits leaning against the amp, beaming dazedly.

They are all dragging their feet towards backstage when a roadie passes Cesare’s phone over. ‘It’s Rodrigo.’

Cesare catches it in mid-air. ‘I’m sore and tired and dying for a smoke, can this wait?’

Micheletto watches his eyes narrow in resigned irritation. He follows when Cesare starts to shove his way towards the bathroom.

The building has been swept beforehand. Micheletto waits by the door, trying to block out the words filtering through.

‘I don’t give a flying fuck what the tabloids say.’

‘What’s different this time? Everyone knows I sleep with guys too.’

Silence, followed by a dark laugh. ‘It’s a bit late to be coming across all paternal now.’

A muffled bang.

‘I won’t choose, and you can’t make me.’

The door flies open a second later, and out storms Cesare. His face looks shadowed, taut. A whole tangle of emotions chase one another in quick succession when their eyes meet, so fast it’s making Micheletto’s head spin.

For one breathless moment, Micheletto thinks he can feel Cesare’s body swaying closer, curling towards him as if for comfort.

Then Cesare is straightening up, shoulders squared. His smile is young and fearless.

Devastatingly so.

 

 

It’s almost anticlimactic when they do catch the culprit behind the threats. Just a regular guy with an overzealous moral compass.

Micheletto signs the non-disclosure agreement the second time, and walks away.

He tells himself he’s too busy to seek Cesare out. New cases come in, new clients are knocking on his door.

The same goes for Cesare, he supposes.

The two phone calls Micheletto’s ignored will soon be forgotten.

 

 

Somewhere towards the end, there is a sliver of time that rests against Micheletto’s ribs like a prickly feather.

Cesare is sitting in a pool of sunlight by the bus, long legs folded in front of himself. He’s cradling an old acoustic in his lap, plucking away at the strings. The chord he comes back to again and again may be the start of a new song or sheer whimsy. He gets bored soon enough and follows it by a fanciful flight up and down the finger-board.

He is talented, Micheletto can tell that much at least. Something which is frequently overshadowed by his model good looks, the fascination over his private life.

Cesare’s head rests against Micheletto’s left knee. The weight of it gets heavier and heavier as his eyes flutter shut, fingers falling into an old folk tune.

Neither says a thing.

Micheletto watches him from the corner of his eye, the sharp jut of his wrist bone, and is grabbed by the strangest urge to press his mouth to the hollow underneath. Not even a kiss, not the kind that leads to feverish exploration.

They lean against each other, lost in the moment, before the real world eventually catches up with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about giving them a more of a finale, explosions, dragons, etc, but decided against it in the end XD

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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